


Maiden's Cloak

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, F/M, Love, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music and laughter fill Evenfall Hall as the nobles of the Stormlands gather to celebrate a most unlikely event: Brienne of Tarth's marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maiden's Cloak

For the first time in many years, Evenfall Hall was filled with laughter and music. Richly costumed nobles from all over the Stormlands danced, talked, and feasted. They had come to witness the unlikely event of Lady Brienne of Tarth’s marriage.

The bride watched from a balcony high above the revelers. She sipped from a cup of watered wine. “You’ve spent more time with him than I have. What kind of man is he?”

Her companion studied the man standing beside Lord Selwyn. Brienne’s betrothed was a weaselly-looking man with silver in his hair and a patch over one eye, whose one act of service to the crown had been testifying against Tyrion. Lord Philip Foote. Jaime had been present in the throne room the day Foote was raised up and given Nightsong, and he’d had the misfortune to speak to the upjumped knight several times over the past three days. Foote was unworthy to speak to Brienne, much less share her bed, but Jaime couldn’t say that. 

“He has no idea how to manage castle or lands. His castellan is more lord than he is.”

“I can manage a castle," Brienne reminded him. “Nightsong is smaller than Evenfall.”

Evenfall Hall was far larger than Jaime had expected. When he’d asked why, Brienne had explained that fierce storms in the Narrow Sea didn’t just sink ships. Wind and rain could destroy entire villages, forcing the smallfolk to shelter at Evenfall.

Brienne had been raised as Lord Selwyn’s heir since she was four. She could be a real help to her husband, but Lord Foote had made his views on women clear. “Lord Foote will not consult you on these matters, my lady,” Jaime reminded her. 

“Nor will I consult him,” she countered. “If he objects, I’ve beaten an old man before.”

Jaime laughed, glad that no one could hear them below. He would miss her stubbornness, her mulish expression. “Have you, now? That is a tale I must hear.”

Brienne smiled, perhaps recalling her victory. “He was a castellan, fifty years my senior. My third betrothal. He threatened to beat me into becoming a proper lady.” She stared down into her wine. “I doubt Lord Foote would duel me for my hand.”

Jaime pushed down his anger at the castellan's presumption. Brienne had dealt with the man long ago. Jaime set his hand hesitantly on her arm. The blue silk felt strange under his fingers, more used to leather or wool. Unlike her usual garb, the gown was tight all over and too fussy to suit Brienne. She looked miserable, her fine hair tortured and pinned into a meager pile of flaxen curls. And this was only the beginning. 

Brienne needed reassurance that she had survived far worse trials than this marriage, but Jaime had seen bad marriages close at hand. Foote might not be a brute like Robert or a monster like Aerys, but his scorn would wear Brienne down just the same. 

“Perhaps he will leave you alone once he has a son.” Jaime had told Cersei the same thing long ago, and it had worked for a time. He could not picture Brienne cradling a tiny babe in her arms. He did not want to, either. 

Her left hand fell unconsciously to her flat belly. “My septa said the marriage bed was to be endured. Now I understand what she meant,” she said sourly.

Fortunately Tarth’s old septa hadn’t survived the last bout of sickness to sweep the island. Jaime would not have been able to resist telling her exactly what he thought of her.

“Perhaps he won’t live long. Then you can do what you like,” he suggested, leaning in closer. Jaime was not a man given to prayer, but he would pray for that. “I’d love to show you the Rock.” 

Having Brienne all to himself hundreds of leagues from his sister’s and her husband’s clutches was just a dream. Cersei would never allow it. That didn’t stop Jaime from wondering what Brienne would think of the Rock’s endless passages, the Hall of Heroes, the shipyard nestled inside the caverns. 

“I’d love to see it, but ...” She blushed and looked away. 

“What?”

Brienne’s chipped teeth bit into the generous swell of her lower lip. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “He’ll never let me leave.”

Jaime followed her gaze down to the assembled nobility, to her betrothed. Lord Foote was older than Jaime, but not so elderly that he was likely to die soon. Barring a happy accident, Brienne had long years ahead of her, suffering that man's indifference and perfunctory efforts to produce an heir. 

Jaime’s hand tightened on her arm. “We could still go to Braavos. I overheard men talking earlier. There's a ship leaving on the morning tide." Jaime loathed the pleading tone in his voice, but time was running short. 

She shook her head, whispered, “Please don’t,” barely audible over the music and voices below them.  

Jaime’s fingers swept lightly over the inside of her wrist, a more intimate touch than he'd allowed himself since the raven which set her wedding date arrived in King's Landing. “We could look for Arya. Trade one vow for another.” Jaime had thought of little else for hours, since he’d last spoken to the grasping, faithless man who would become Brienne’s lord husband. 

Brienne squeezed his hand, gently removed it from her arm. “I made a promise. I owe my father that much.”

"Your father?" Jaime bit back his anger at Lord Selwyn. Brienne's father was just as trapped as the rest of them now, but he could have ended this years ago. Jaime gripped the railing and lowered his voice. “Your father is giving Foote his daughter and his island, and that poxy bastard demanded more coin only this afternoon. Tell me, Brienne, is  _ this  _ what you owe your father?”

“Did you think he’d see me and fall to his knees, grateful to be shackled to a scarred freak?” Brienne laughed bitterly, glancing down at her gown, its low neckline revealing the scars along her shoulder. “He wants a fair price for the big ugly whore he’ll keep hidden away where I can’t embarrass him.”

“You’re no whore.” Jaime spat the words, but he’d heard the whispers too. The scattered remains of the Brotherhood without Banners had told anyone who would listen about Brienne’s treachery against Lady Catelyn Stark, how she’d betrayed her lady for a place in the Kingslayer’s bed. 

“No? Tell that to every minstrel between here and the Reach.” 

They all told it differently, but few could resist a story of vengeance raising the dead, soldiers of the people hanging the wicked, and a traitorous woman whose loyalties changed every time the tide of war turned. That was not the only tale of Brienne of Tarth, nor the most popular.

The song they’d heard in every tavern since they’d made their way out of the Riverlands harked all the way back to the bear pit at Harrenhal. Lord Selwyn hadn’t found the song amusing, and neither had Jaime. According to the singers, Jaime had bedded Brienne the night they’d left Harrenhal. The singers squabbled over whether Brienne had worn mail or Myrish lace, ignoring the bloody reality of Jaime’s slowly healing stump and Brienne’s freshly clawed shoulder. 

Lord Selwyn had demanded the truth in a tone which implied that anything less would disappoint him greatly. Jaime had told the man enough that Lord Selwyn’s anger had turned to pity by the end. 

Jaime loved her, and he would never tell her. 

For Brienne’s part, she was miserable about hiding her feelings for Jaime. Even now, her hand found his on the rail, briefly drawing comfort from the touch. Somehow his certainty that she loved him too made this farce of a wedding even worse.

“I must go before we are noticed,” Brienne whispered, resigned. She slipped away before he could find the words to make her stay.

 

* * *

 

Brienne stayed in the Great Hall long enough to overhear two knights from Bronzegate betting whether the bride would wear a maiden’s cloak or the Kingslayer’s white. Her hands shaking, she made her apologies to her father and her betrothed, and retreated to her chambers. 

A timid young maid came in as Brienne attempted to undress. The girl’s slim fingers made quick work of her gown’s laces and unbound Brienne’s thin hair. The pins had left her scalp sore, and red lines marked where the gown had dug into her skin.

When the maid had gone, Brienne settled into a chair by the crackling fire, her long legs sticking out beneath the simple white shift. She sat by the fire for a long time, watching the flames dance. Her body was tired, but her mind was too unsettled for sleep. 

Brienne had hoped that returning home, sleeping in her girlhood bed, would help her accept the path she must take. But the girl who’d left Tarth full of a child’s foolish love for Renly Baratheon bore little resemblance to the woman who’d returned. She had killed, and she had lost those she’d sworn to protect. Both had scarred Brienne deeper than Biter’s teeth ever could. 

Somehow she'd believed that her disfigurement would spare her another betrothal. Brienne could go on playing the Maid to Jaime's Warrior, name Podrick her heir in lieu of a trueborn child. She missed the boy, safely hidden away with Sansa in the North. 

She’d been foolish. A man would wed a halfwit or an infant for the right price. The lordship of Tarth would be enough to coax a man to wed her.

Yet the betrothal had taken Brienne by surprise. She had been summoned to Queen Cersei's chambers in the Red Keep one afternoon. That had been strange enough, as the Queen Regent had never sought her company. Queen Cersei had been courteous but commanding, explaining that she had negotiated Brienne’s betrothal. Without the marriage to bind Tarth to the crown, Cersei had continued, Lord Selwyn’s loyalty might be questioned. And what would the Faith think of Jaime, a man sworn to celibacy, who spent so much time in the company of an unmarried woman? 

Brienne hadn’t believed Cersei until the raven had arrived from Tarth, until she’d showed the message to Jaime and watched the color drain from his face. That had been the first night that Jaime had asked her to go to Braavos. His entreaties had grown increasingly desperate as their departure date had neared, but Brienne would not risk either her father or Jaime. 

Lord Selwyn had welcomed his daughter home with a hug which had nearly crushed her. He’d regarded Jaime with suspicion. Later, when Brienne and her father were alone, she had told him the long and bloody tales she’d omitted from the few letters she had been able to send over the past two years. His face, aged so much by the hard years she’d been away, had darkened to a crimson fit for a Lannister. When Brienne’s tale was done, Lord Selwyn had summoned Jaime to his solar, and the two men had spoken privately. Neither would tell her what had been discussed.

Since then, her father had accepted Brienne’s companion, treating him with the deference due to the King’s uncle and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. But Lord Selwyn could not force others to do the same. Lord Foote had been especially badly mannered, but Jaime had kept his temper in check. For that, Brienne was grateful. It was difficult enough wedding a stranger without Jaime quarreling with him as well. She still hoped to visit King’s Landing again someday. Being escorted back to Tarth by her rumored lover wasn’t improving those chances. 

That Jaime had never been her lover made no difference. 

When the fire had burned down to embers, Brienne wrapped herself in the cloak hanging by her door and left her chamber.

 

* * *

 

Jaime had stayed in the Great Hall briefly after Brienne left him. He’d wanted to follow her. Instead he’d made idle conversation with a grass-green knight, then caught Lord Selwyn’s eye before leaving the hall. 

Brienne worshiped her father, but Jaime had come to Tarth expecting merely to tolerate the man. Lord Selwyn had offered his daughter to a series of unsuitable men, and this last one was perhaps the worst of the lot. Had Brienne’s father simply married again, she would not have to marry Lord Foote. A fitting name for a man good for nothing but licking the boots of greater men. 

Her betrothed had scarcely extended Brienne the courtesy of a brief conversation in the three days he’d been at Evenfall. The rest of his time had been spent surveying the island, discussing Tarth’s trade relationships and goods with Lord Selwyn’s bannermen. 

Earlier that day, when courtesy had forced Jaime to spent a few hours touring the harbor with Lord Selwyn and Lord Foote, Brienne’s betrothed had waited until her father was distracted to ask Jaime pointedly about his bride’s sword-handling skills. In that moment Jaime had deeply regretted not wearing his golden hand. Brienne would not thank him for wiping the smirk off Foote’s smug face, but the man had purposely goaded him, probing to see if the rumors were true. 

Jaime wished they were. Brienne had earned his respect early on, but love and lust had caught him by surprise much later. After a lifetime of obsessive, all-consuming passion with Cersei, Brienne was perhaps the least likely woman to stir his blood. Yet Jaime wanted her, in his bed and in his life. Even now he itched to go to Brienne, beg her one more time to come away with him.

With no duties to attend to, Jaime had rarely left Brienne’s side since they’d arrived. Every time she introduced him as Lord Commander, Jaime was tempted to correct her. Escorting Brienne to Tarth had been Jaime’s last task as a Kingsguard. When he returned to King’s Landing, his sister would strip him of his white cloak, at his request. Tommen needed a strong Warden of the West more than he needed a one-handed Kingsguard still learning to fight with his left hand. 

For once, Cersei had agreed with him. Then she’d arranged Brienne’s betrothal. His twin might demand that Jaime make a politically advantageous match as well. It would amuse her to sell Jaime off just as she had been sold to Robert. Years ago, Cersei never would have tolerated another woman in his bed. Now Jaime was only certain she wouldn’t tolerate Brienne sharing his bed. 

After a while lying restlessly alone in bed, unable to sleep, Jaime gave up and took a seat by the fire. He poured a cup of red wine and sipped it slowly. Unlike his siblings, Jaime was not overly fond of wine, but it was all the steward had provided, and Jaime was loathe to summon a servant at this time of night. 

Cersei’s lips had tasted of wine when she had mockingly kissed him goodbye in the White Sword Tower. “You’ll have the Rock when you return,” she’d whispered in his ear. Cersei knew damned well that Jaime didn’t care about ruling Casterly Rock. He never had. 

The door opening startled Jaime from his reverie. Brienne stood in his chamber, barefoot and awkward, wearing a dark, heavy cloak over a thin shift which barely reached her knees. Her hair was loose and curled around her shoulders. 

Jaime had had this dream before. He’d lived it when he’d fucked Cersei before her wedding. Jaime doubted Brienne had come here with that plan in mind. He’d come to her chamber late at night twice before they’d left King’s Landing, determined to at least tell her how he felt. Brienne had not opened the door either time. 

“A maiden concerned for her reputation might consider visiting a knight’s chamber late at night unwise,” he said dryly. “Should anyone discover you here…”

Brienne hesitated. “I couldn’t sleep. I needed to talk to you.”

“In your shift?” She could not possibly be so innocent not to realize how this looked. 

As Brienne turned to bar the door, he saw the back of her cloak, the sun and moon of her house. The maiden was not Jaime’s to claim, yet she'd come to his chamber on the night before her wedding, wearing her maiden’s cloak and little else. Any other man would have her backed against that door already, making her his. Jaime shook the image out of his head.

“What do you want, Brienne?” Jaime stood to face her, the wine he'd drunk sour on his tongue. 

Long, pale fingers clutched the cloak tighter around her. Brienne stroked a thumb over a worn spot in the velvet, the delicate embroidery and rose-silk lining. Was this the same cloak Lord Selwyn had given her mother? Jaime had looked in vain for any portraits of Lady Aeryn in Evenfall. He could only guess she’d been blonde like Brienne and freckled. Lord Selwyn’s face was lined but clear.  

“Why did you come with me, to Tarth?" Brienne asked softly. 

Jaime let his gaze drop to her bare feet and slowly took in her oddly delicate ankles, her muscular calves, the linen which did little to hide strong, solid thighs, flat stomach and small breasts, the blush that bloomed under his scrutiny. He met her eyes. “You know why.”

Brienne shook her head, brushed away a lock of hair which fell across her shining eyes. “I don’t, truly. I’ve never known what we are, Jaime.”

“We are the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth, for one more night anyway.” A grimace flickered across her face, so he gentled his voice. “And I will spend every minute I can with you, before we say goodbye one last time.” The finality of that hit Jaime like a hammer blow. 

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, dismay written across her face. “Last time?”

There was no point in continuing to hide the truth. She would find out soon enough. “Even if Lord Bootlicker lets you visit King’s Landing, I won’t be there.”

She stepped forward unsteadily, sank into the chair he’d vacated. “I don’t understand. Where will you be? Is the King being sent away to squire?”

That was a fine idea, one Cersei would never consider. She would think Jaime had some sinister motive, rather than simply wishing to keep his son safe. “Tommen is releasing me from the Kingsguard, restoring my lands and titles. I will be Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Brienne’s mouth dropped open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaime hadn’t wanted to give either of them false hope. Cersei had seen through him immediately, turned his desires against him. She’d always known exactly how to bend Jaime to her will. “You will be wed tomorrow, no matter the color of my cloak.”

Brienne’s eyes closed, her head bowed, her hands coming up to cover her face. Jaime wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. After a minute, her hands slipped from her face. She stood, cloak drawn close as a shroud. “I shouldn’t have come.” 

“But you did, in nightclothes I can nearly see through, wrapped in your maiden’s cloak like a thrice-damned gift. Did you think I’d try to bed you, Brienne? So you could push me away and think the worst of me?”

“No,” she protested. Brienne was nearly swallowed up by the dark velvet with its pattern of suns and moons. A pretty girl would have grown up hearing that her hair shone like the sun, her eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky. Brienne’s hair was more straw than sun, but her eyes put the stars to shame. Her eyes burned now.

“Then why are you here?" She must know that she was only making this harder for Jaime, placing temptation in his path, reminding him of what he would never have.

Brienne’s broad mouth worked as if chewing up the words she wanted to say. “Braavos,” she finally said. 

“What of it?” He tried to stamp out the flicker of hope in his chest, the brief flash of the two of them, standing on the deck of a ship marveling at the Titan of Braavos. 

“What would you have done if I’d agreed to run away to Braavos?” 

Jaime closed the distance between them. “Gone to Braavos. Say the word, and we’ll go tonight.” He touched the cloak, gathered the soft fabric in his hand. “You might want a change of clothes, though.”

Brienne’s gaze was fixed somewhere around his shoulder, her voice soft. “But you would lose everything.”

“Not everything.” Jaime sighed. He hadn’t wanted to explain this, hadn’t wanted her to know the marriage was his fault. “Cersei arranged your betrothal because I asked to leave the Kingsguard.”

Brienne retreated to the window, the cloak slipping free of Jaime’s grasp and swirling about her as she moved. “Why?”

“I can’t fight. I can do far more for Tommen in the West.” Jaime hesitated. “And I wanted to take you with me.”

She looked out the window, moonlight casting odd shadows across her face. “I won’t make you choose between me and your son.”

Jaime had not felt so powerless since their time with Vargo Hoat. He didn’t want to abandon Tommen either, but Brienne was about to do something that could not be undone. Their exile didn’t have to last forever. Perhaps after Tommen came of age they could return. 

“We may never see each other again, Brienne. Is that what you want?”

“No, but what would happen to my father? Your sister threatened him,” she whispered.

Jaime wanted to go to her, but held his ground. If he touched Brienne, he would kiss her. If he kissed her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go. 

“I’ll stay for the wedding, but not the feast,” he said quietly. 

Brienne turned back. “You won’t stay?” Her voice was small. “I thought you’d—”

“Deliver you to another man’s bed?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his words. 

Her blue eyes widened. “Shield me from the worst of them,” she said, voice faltering.

That broke his resolve. Jaime went to her, pulled her into his arms. Brienne was shaking, and with good reason. Before she even made it to the bedchamber, Brienne would have to endure being stripped, fondled, and leered at by every man at the feast. Even if Jaime could tolerate watching that, there would be little he could do. 

“I doubt shouting ‘sapphires’ will work this time,” he said softly. 

She buried her face in his shoulder, and Jaime stroked her hair. Her maid had used some fragrant oil in it, and Brienne smelled of summer. Wildflowers and sun. Her hands were fisted in his shirt. Jaime slipped his right arm beneath her cloak, pressed to the small of her back. If this was the only time he ever held Brienne, he would hold her properly. 

A shaky breath warmed his throat, and Brienne brought her head up from his shoulder. Her eyes were so blue this close, sky and sea and a hint of steel. 

_ Just once, _ Jaime promised himself. 

And he kissed her.

 

* * *

 

Lord Selwyn Tarth did not hear the door open, yet a servant girl stood in his solar when he finally turned away from the window. He could not recall such a busy morning in Evenfall’s yard since before the war.

The girl’s hands twisted together, her eyes downcast.

“Speak up, girl,” he said brusquely. 

“M’lord,” she said in a tremulous voice, “I have been attending Lady Brienne.”

Selwyn chuckled. “She is not accustomed to being fussed over, I know. Just do your best,” he encouraged. 

The girl shook her head. “M’lord, the lady is not in her chamber.”

The poor thing looked so uncertain. She’d never been pressed into service as a lady’s maid before. Brienne had rarely needed or wanted such service. The girl would not be accompanying her to Nightsong. A more experienced lady’s maid awaited Brienne at her new home. 

“You’ll no doubt find her in the armory or the stable. Let Brienne dally a bit longer, then begin preparations for the wedding,” Selwyn directed. 

“I’ve already checked the armory and stables. No one has seen Lady Brienne today, m’lord.”

Reluctantly, Selwyn suggested, “Find Ser Jaime. They are likely together.” Sparring or simply stealing one last hour together. 

Selwyn had needed very little time to understand his daughter. For all that Brienne had changed, he knew well the look in her eyes, the softness in her voice when she spoke of Jaime Lannister. Yet Selwyn had believed Lannister when he’d said he’d never so much as stolen a kiss from Brienne. Not for lack of want, judging from the knight’s obvious misery. 

The Kingslayer was both everything and nothing like Selwyn had expected. Ser Jaime was golden, fair of face, haughty, with a sharp wit. His unnatural affair with his sister was well known, yet the man followed Brienne around the island like a particularly devoted guard dog. His snarling arrogance turned to adoration when he looked at Brienne.

The girl flushed. “Ser Jaime is missing also.”

Surely Brienne would not defy the Queen Regent’s orders. The Kingslayer, on the other hand, was hot-tempered and impulsive. Ser Jaime had made no secret of his disdain for Lord Philip, as Foote had not hidden his disgust with Lannister.

“Get a steward to help you search the castle. Find them, before Lord Philip hears of this.” 

Lord Selwyn almost hoped he would hear of it. The man had already demanded more money more than once, though not out of any worry about being cuckolded. Lord Philip had dismissed one of his knights’ concerns about legitimate heirs, pointing out that babes died in the cradle every day, especially those who bore a strong resemblance to another man. 

The girl bobbed a curtsy and left the solar. She returned less than an hour later, insisting that there was something Lord Selwyn must see. 

With some irritation and a growing sense of dread, he followed the girl through the castle. Servants whispered to each other as they passed. He realized where they were going long before the girl led him to the door of Evenfall’s small sept. 

She opened the door and beckoned him in, but did not follow. 

Lord Selwyn did not immediately understand what he was meant to see. The sept’s interior was dim, its western-facing windows still in the shadow of the Great Hall. Servants had set candles at the altars, with most clustered between the altars of the Father and the Mother. Fabric lay puddled before the altars, dark and light intertwined.

The sparkle of silver thread caught his eye. Lord Selwyn lurched forward, snatching up handfuls of midnight-blue velvet and white wool. 

Brienne’s maiden’s cloak and Ser Jaime’s Kingsguard cloak. 

Lord Selwyn knew he should be angry. His daughter had shamed him and her betrothed, risked the Queen Regent’s wrath. He should be cursing Brienne’s defiance, but he felt only relief. 

The two cloaks thrown over his arm, Selwyn left the sept. He would send men to the harbor, but he didn’t expect to find Brienne there. Lord Foote would have to be told. There would be questions and recriminations, but Selwyn was the Evenstar. He’d survived rebellion and war, sellswords and reavers. Lord Philip’s displeasure was a small price to pay for his daughter's freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Miss_M for betaing this. It's been kicking around on my hard drive since last May, and I finally got the dialogue to cooperate.


End file.
